Flames Over Paradise
by BusFullOfLlamas
Summary: Semester break started off so well. He was going to spend time with his best friend in Fairfield. He was going to think of ideas for his next project. He was going to have a bit of fun. But, the Zombie Apocalypse had other plans.
1. Chapter 1

Hey there, everyone. Just wanted to say thanks for joining me in this. Some things have been changed from the canon of the games. Some hasn't. Regardless, let's get to the fun stuff.

Left 4 Dead, Left 4 Dead 2, and any other and all related media are not owned by myself, and are owned entirely by Valve.

* * *

"Jesus fucking Christ!"

Thwack!

Thwack!

"Fuck!"

Thwack!

"Off!"

 **THWACK!**

The meaty thunk of metal impacting against flesh echoed around the room, followed quickly by the sound of a door slamming shut, and then heavy, strained breathing.

The room was a small one, built on the second floor of an average sized house in the average sized city of Fairfield, Pennsylvania. Inside the room- was a bed, a small dresser, desk, and chair. And that was about it. The lack of any real decorations or anything else related indicated that while, yes, this is a bedroom- it's not often used.

Also in the room, was a backpack which had been carelessly thrown onto the bed. As well as a young man, with a discarded aluminum baseball bat.

The man was sat on the floor, back pressed against the door which he had slammed shut, his head in his hands, chin length dark brown hair flopping down into the parts of his face not hidden. He was wearing some simple clothes- a long sleeve green shirt, some grey shorts, and his white and black shoes- all of which were stained red with specks and splatters of blood.

He had just killed his roommates mother.

Who had just killed both his roommate, and his roommate's father.

What the fuck was going on!?

He tried to force his breathing under control. He tried to keep the sobs back, from making too much noise. From drawing the attention of any more of those… _things_. He was able to keep himself from sobbing- Zach had been his best friend for nearly three years. They had been friends before going to film school at Aldrich in Philly, and they had become business partners during- planning on opening their own studio in Philly when they graduated.

And now Zach was lying in a pool of his own blood, guts thrown around the kitchen like fucking confetti.

He turned to the side in time to not vomit all over himself, his eyes stinging from the sharp sting of bile escaping his throat.

"Fuck…" He whispered, wiping at his mouth.

Things had gone crazy in a matter of fucking minutes. He had come with Zach back to his roommates family home in Fairfield for the semester break- intent on spending it with them so they could brainstorm ideas for a project- when they had been called down for dinner. Zach's mother had disappeared for a few minutes to grab something from outside- or something- and when she came back, she was all grey. And bleeding, and fucking crazy! She had lunged at Zach's father tearing his throat out with her fucking teeth, before turning on Zach.

Fuck, he was _lucky_ that there had been an aluminum bat near the table.

He didn't even know what he had done- other than shoving her off of Zach. He could still see the look of shock and horror on his friends vacant face- eyes glassy, staring at him. _Why?_ Those eyes asked. _Why didn't he save him?_

He pulled his hands away from his face, and looked down at them. They had managed to not get splattered too badly. He looked down at his leg, his breathing picking up in pace.

He was bitten.

He was a film maker. One who wanted to make horror films. As fucking crazy as it was, he knew what was going on.

Fucking Zombies!

He had thought the Green Flu was just that. A fucking flue. Not some rage-virus shit like from 28 Days Later.

But it didn't matter.

He was _bitten._

He was going to die. It wasn't a question of if but when. Would it take hours? Days? He didn't think so. Mrs. Greene had been gone for all of a minute before she came back all… dead. His heart hammered in his chest. He didn't feel anything. Anything but the sting coming from the fucking bite wound in his leg!

He threw his head back against the wall, trying to force himself to keep it together.

Fuck, this was crazy.

How long had it been since he was bitten. A few minutes now, at least. But- he still didn't feel anything.

Another minute passed.

And then another.

Soon, he felt like he should try and get the bite seen too.

If he recalled correctly, there were some bandages and stuff in the first floor bedroom. Hopefully the first aide equipment would be enough to keep things from getting too bad. It would suck to survive a zombie bite to then die from an infection or something. He let out a small chuckle and shook his head. Maybe he was going crazy? Laughing at a time like this. What would Zack say? The thought sobered him. Zach was dead. He had to be. He forced himself to his feet, grabbing at the bat to use it as a makeshift crutch. Fuck. Mrs. Greene had grabbed him as he bolted up the stairs and taken a bite out of the back of his calf. He twisted his leg and grimaced at the sight. Jesus- it looked bad.

He brought the bat to bare and slowly, carefully opened the door to the guest bedroom that he had been given. At not seeing anything, he stepped over Mrs. Greene's corpse, limping his way to the stairs.

He slowly made his way down the stairs- knowing that they creaked like a son of a bitch, entering the lower floor, and seeing at the end of the hall, the bathroom.

The only problem was that the door to the kitchen was in between where he was and the end of the hall, where the bathroom was. He tried his best to quietly make his way down the hall, stopping at the door to the kitchen, carefully peeking around.

Zach and Mr. Greene were both where they had fallen.

He let out a small sigh, and moved forwards to the end of the hall, still a bit wary.

Once he was in the bathroom, he was quick in locking the door, and riffling through the cabinet. Pain pills- which he stuffed into his pocket, disinfectant, gauze- some extra stuff that he got ready. He kicked off his shoe, and grabbed a cloth. He wetted it, and started to clean the wound.

Fuck- that _really_ wasn't good.

Some small part of him realized that maybe he wasn't reacting much to this because he was in shock. If that was the case- he was glad. It allowed him to clean and dress himself with the disinfectant and gauze without too much fuss.

He brought his leg down, grimaced at his bloody shoe, and then kicked off his other one. He had brought an extra pair- and walking around in bloody shoes didn't sound all that appealing.

He stepped out of the bathroom, grabbing the rest of the medical stuff, before he walked his way back to his room.

Once back upstairs, he closed the door again, before sitting himself down on the bed. He let out a small sigh, and clenched his eyes shut. He should find an evacuation or something. Mr. Greene had mentioned that there was something of the sort going on downtown.

He shook his head. Crazy.

But there was nothing else that he could really do.

He stood, and headed towards the dresser, which he had stuffed full of his clothes- he pulled on a pair of Jeans, his favorite dark green canvas jacket, zipping it up. He grabbed the hat he bought in his first semester- a black baseball cap with a white film slate on the front- and put it on, before stuffing a bunch of things into his bag.

An extra change of clothes. Some water bottles and canned food from downstairs. The medical supplies, and anything else he could grab were all stuffed into the bag.

All right. He was ready.

Why didn't he feel ready.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck…" He mumbled, as he made his way out of the house- leaving through the back door. After looking through the newspaper Mr. Greene had been reading- he learned that there was some sort of evacuation going on at Mercy Hospital.

Which, thankfully wasn't too, too far away.

In fact- he recalled that he could see the hospital from the Burger Tank that was a few blocks away- the one next to the old Pump 'N Run gas station.

He gripped the metal bat close, as he opened the fence in the back yard, constantly being careful to not to draw any unneeded attention onto himself.

Two blocks to the Pump 'N Run.

Then, he would take things as they came.

It was Alexander James Maxwell versus the Zombie Apocalypse.


	2. Chapter 2

Hey there, everyone! Thanks for reading the last chapter. I wrote it in about two or so hours- so this one is going to be a bit longer. And, hopefully, better. I think the way that things are going, updates will be every Wednesday. I can't wait until we get to the character interactions. Chapters will likely get a bit longer at that point.

Read and Review, please and thank you!

Any and all copyrighted content from Left 4 Dead, Left 4 Dead 2, and any and all related media are owned by Valve. I claim no ownership.

One Month Earlier.

"Jim? I have two black coffees for a Jim?"

A twenty-something year old man let out a small sigh as he stepped forward to grab the dark, bitter liquid that was his life-blood. He could function without it, but the stuff did wonders to get him up and going in the morning. Especially after a long day of shooting. He thought back to yesterday and frowned, wiping at his face. They had gone four hours overtime. Four hours.

And that was entirely because the director couldn't make it to fucking set on time. Or take anything seriously.

He had said some words that he regretted. But- to be fair, so had she. He ran a hand through his hair, before he paid for his drink, trying to not get upset again.

He looked at the barista with an expression of deep gratitude- causing her to laugh merrily. He was a regular here, and evidently his misery was amusing to her. He shook his head as he walked away.

He was able to get about three feet away from the campus coffee shop with a hot cardboard cup in hand, when he saw his best friend Zach approaching, a dumb fucking smile on his face. All right. Maybe he was still a bit upset.

"Hey bud." Zach said, letting out a laugh at the disheveled state that he was in. "Jesus, you look like a wreck." He said while shaking his head, his light blue eyes alight with amusement.

Zach was one hundred percent right. He had forgotten his hat when he left his dorm that day- so his dark brown hair was hanging down to his chin and was slightly matted and messy. The rest of his dress was equally disheveled, his jeans and blue shirt were both wrinkled. He had forgone wearing his jacket that day- because he didn't really feel like he needed to wear it. He had dark bags underneath his light green eyes, showing just how much the previous night had affected him. He had just fallen asleep in those clothes the night before.

"I guess that's what you get for working with Kinski."

He grunted into his coffee, his eyes falling shut as he took the first delicious sip of the dark brew.

Zach laughed off to his side. "You're the producer, Jim. You _can_ fire her."

"What's the point? We've only got one more day to shoot." He grumbled.

Zach shrugged, a smirk on his face.

"You know it's your script that she's fucking up, right?" He asked, watching with a perverse sort of glee as the smug expression on Zach's face faded, a frown forming on his lips.

Jim snorted, and started walking ahead. Zach stepping to follow after him. "You would think that with how many horror movies she watches, it would be impossible to fuck up a zombie flick." He groused, making Jim roll his eyes.

"Watching a film and making one are completely different things." Jim muttered, Zach grunting in acknowledgement.

After a few minutes of walking, Zach spoke up again. "So…" He said, looking over at him. "Where are we walking?"

Jim held out the extra cup of coffee he had in front of Zach's face. A small grin on his face.

"I'm going to Zoey's place to make sure she's on time today."

Jim gasped awake, hand reaching out towards the crowbar that he slept beside. His heart was beating erratically as he looked around the room, his eyes attempting to adjust to the darkness around him. He strained his ears- and above the pumping of his blood, he couldn't really hear anything.

"Fuck." He whispered, forcing himself to calm down. He had woken up like this for the last five nights.

It was a week after he had left Zach's place, and he had very much underestimated the difficulty of moving around. Every time the twenty four year old attempted to go… anywhere… he had been swarmed by zombies. And every time, he had barely managed to get away. A few nights ago, he had discovered that most of the things wandering below were attracted by sound.

He had also come to the conclusion that there were people still around in Fairfield. He came to this conclusion, because every occasionally, there would be the sounds of gunfire off in the distance.

Jim wished that he had a gun.

He could count the times that he had fired a gun before on both hands. As a producer who was making a zombie short film a month ago- and wasn't that fucking ironic?- he had brought the cast to a shooting range so that they would be able to get a feel of the recoil of the weapons so they could act like they were actually firing on camera.

Even if he wasn't a good shot- and he wasn't- a gun would be nice. A gun would mean that he wouldn't have to swing the heavy crowbar every time he had to protect himself from the gnashing jaws of some infected asshole.

He let out a rough sigh, as he rubbed at his eyes, pulling himself out from underneath the oak desk that he had fallen asleep under. He pushed himself up to his feet, and walked over to the window of the office he had holed himself up in that night- some law office or something. He could see Mercy Hospital from there. And- thankfully, he could barely see the lights of helicopters arriving and leaving. He didn't know how long this would continue. He hoped that evacuations would continue until he reached that side of town.

As much as he would like to believe the opposite- he knew that that wasn't going to be the case.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to work away the cramp that sleeping on the floor half hidden under a desk gave him. He didn't think that any infected would be able to find him while he was in the office- not behind three or four closed doors and being as quiet as he could be, but sleeping under the desk would help hide him further if any of them somehow stumbled into the lawyers office.

He had searched through every drawer as well, hoping to find anything that he would be able to use. And aside from a bottle of valium, he didn't find anything of note.

He grabbed his back from where he was using it as a pillow and pulled it up to the desk, allowing himself to fall down onto the big leather chair behind it. He would have himself something to eat, before he would move on.

He pulled out a can of beans. Well. This is a good enough breakfast as any.

He glanced out the window again- the dark sky making him shake his head. He had been moving during the night and sleeping during the day. It was less likely for him to draw attention to himself while he snuck around in the shadows.

Jim managed to get the can open- thank god it had a tab- and started _drinking_ the beans, a grimace on his face. Cold beans were fine. Cold chicken noodle soup, he had found, was god-awful.

About ten minutes later, Jim was much more refreshed. He pushed himself to his feet and made his way to the door of the office, crowbar at the ready. There was nothing in the reception area outside the office. Nor was there anything in the lobby. As he was heading down the staircase to the ground floor, he finally came across one of them.

He paused, his eyes widening as he crouched himself down to the ground, breath catching in his throat. It was just… sitting there. Arms wrapped around it's legs, head down. It looked to be an older guy, with graying black hair. The thing's skin was an ashen gray. Its arm looked half eaten, and the bite on his lower leg itched angrily.

He drummed his fingers silently on the crowbar. There was no way that he was going to be able to get past the fucker. He gripped the crowbar and started moving.

Before he knew it, he was upon the zombie bringing down the hook of the crowbar down against the base of the things skull. A sickening squelch filled the hall, as the hook of the crowbar sunk deep into the things skull. A gurgle escaped its mouth, twitching for a few seconds, until it slumped forwards, still.

Jim pulled the crowbar away, grimacing at the body moved with it. He placed the sole of his shoe on the thing's shoulder, and roughly yanked to the side.

Gore splashed down against the ground as he freed his weapon. He took in a deep breath, and closed his eyes, trying to keep his breakfast in. A few deep breaths later, and he started to move again.

Soon, he was at the front door to the law office, the glass door was broken- probably how the zombie had gotten in. He stepped forward- careful not to crunch on the broken glass.

So far, Jim had been moving building by building, sometimes he made it a block away in a night. Sometimes, he only got the next building over.

Tonight, it looked like he would be able to get a decent amount of distance in.

He kept himself close to the walls of the office, knees bent and low to the ground. He was quick with his steps, but he didn't allow himself to move without caution. He could see a few zombies across the street, hanging around parked cars, or sat down with their heads in their hands. He turned, darting into a narrow alleyway. He pressed himself against the brick wall of the building, breathing lightly. He looked down the alley, frowning at the sight before him. Two of them. Fuck.

He peeked out of the alley, wondering if it would be possible to skip down to the next available alley. Only to duck back inside it, cursing internally.

There was a group of the things approaching the alley. They would be there in seconds.

He had to move.

He turned, once again holding onto the crowbar- hook facing away from the first zombie. A girl that looked to be about his age, wearing a red hoodie and jeans, who was leaning against the wall, facing it. He reared back, grunting as the heavy iron in his hands connected to the side of her head. He was moving towards the zombie further down the alley before he could really register if his hit was enough to kill the girl.

The next zombie was younger. About seventeen. He tried not to think about it as he struck it, caving its head in. He tried not to think, as he pressed himself into an alcove that was a doorway. He didn't know if the group of zombies had seen him. Or if he'd managed to get into cover before they spotted him.

A minute passed before he was willing to peek around the corner.

Nothing.

He let out a breath. His eyes falling shut, as he let his head fall back against the brick wall. Thank god.

He waited another minute or so before he would start heading down the alleyway once more. It went straight for a few more yards before it turned to the right in a ninety degree angle. Not knowing what was down that turn, but not willing to go back onto the street, Jim went into his hurried crouch and further into the alleyway.

He peeked around the corner for all of a second before he was moving forward. There was nothing in the alley other than a dumpster and some random shit on the floor. No zombies.

He glanced up- he was in between what looked like two apartment buildings. That was good. He would hopefully be able to scrounge for some supplies- he was running pretty low on canned food. Hell. Maybe he would even be able to find a gun or something.

That would be nice.

Jim pursed his lips as he looked at the metal doors barring him entry. He _could_ try and get in through them, but that would be far, far too loud for his liking- and there was no guarantee that the doors _weren't_ alarmed.

What was worse, was the fact that this alleyway just stopped after another ten or so yards. Fucking dead end. He needed to get into these buildings- or he would have to go back to the entrance of the alleyway. And face the zombies on the street.

He glanced up again and licked at his drying lips.

There was a fire escape that he could try and climb, which lead up to an open window.

The problem was that he couldn't reach it. Not without climbing onto something. He glanced around, looking for something somewhat light that he would be able to move that he could climb. There wasn't a whole lot. A few garbage cans. The dumpster at the end of the alley. That was about it.

Fuck.

He looked at his crowbar. He could probably hook the crowbar into the bottom rung and try to climb that?

It might be loud.

But, it was also the only thing that he could really do.

Jim took a few steps back, gripping onto the crowbar.

He rolled his shoulders, before he darted forwards, before leaping. And with a horrid, screeching clang, the crowbar hooked into the bottom rung.

Jim's hands slid off the crowbar, unable to hold on for long, landing onto the ground with a bit of a huff. Good. Now, all he had to do was jump, grab the crowbar, climb up the ladder, and he would be able to get into the apartment, and off the streets for now.

And then he heard the sound of dozens of zombies howling. Footsteps, hurried and frantic, running in his direction.

He had alerted the horde.


	3. Chapter 3

Another Wednesday, another update!

Read and Review, please and thank you!

Any and all copyrighted content from Left 4 Dead, Left 4 Dead 2, and any and all related media are owned by Valve- I make no claim to any copyrighted content.

* * *

Thunderous footsteps.

Howls.

Jim looked down to where he had entered the alley.

Shadows. Dozens. More.

He hurriedly wiped his now sweating palms on his jeans before he jumped, fingers curling desperately around the metal of the crowbar- hands inches away from the bottom. He needed to climb. He needed to get off the ground.

He swore to himself, not really trying to be quiet now- there was no point- now that those things knew that he was there.

His hands started slipping off the bar.

He kicked his feet desperately.

He looked down the alley.

And into the horde that approached him.

"Shit!" He grunted, pulling himself upwards.

He grabbed the lowest rung. He reached up to grab the next highest rung. And the one after that, the crowbar tight in his grasp.

He barely got his feet up onto the bottom rung before they were swarming underneath him.

He couldn't help but watch, their clawing, grasping hands and gnashing teeth reaching for him hungrily. He pulled himself up onto the landing of the fire escape, pressing his back against the brick wall, holding the crowbar limply at his side.

"Holy fucking shit."

Jim's hands were shaking. His blood was pumping. They were practically climbing over one another to get up to him.

Speaking of up.

The open window was about three flights up the fire escape. He could get in, and hopefully find a place to hide and wait for the horde beneath to dissipate. Maybe he would be able to run along the roofs or something- they seemed close enough together for-

Pain.

Every other thought disappeared as he was tackled into the guard rail of the fire escape. He barely had the wherewithal to grab onto it- to try and keep himself from falling- but the result was his crowbar falling into the horde of infected.

The sharp corner of the guard rail dug into his now aching ribs, as he felt fists pounding down onto his side.

He hunched his shoulders, ducking his head down while turning his body- protecting his now injured side. His vision was swimming, blurry from unshed tears.

He took a few hits from the infected attacking him, his breath being sucked out in sharp, painful gasps. It's growls were all he could focus on. It wasn't much louder than the horde beneath him, but they were sharper.

Jim braced himself against the railing, holding his body weight low, to prevent him from being pushed over the edge of the railing and to his death. He shoved, trying desperately to put some distance in between him and the zombie. He blinked, forcefully clearing his vision, and tried to lash out with a punch- which, thankfully connected.

He wasn't overly strong, but he was over six feet tall, and was in pretty decent shape. The punch was enough to send the zombie off balance and back, into the outside wall of the building. He moved forwards, not wanting the zombie to have the chance to get it's bearings and turn to attack him again. He grabbed the zombies shirt, watching as it turned its head towards him, cold dead eyes and snapping teeth. He sucked in a breath.

It was a woman. And it looked like his mom.

It wasn't though. She had died year ago from cancer.

With a grunt, he twisted, keeping his grip strong on her shirt rotating them so that their positions were reversed. With the wall behind him, he pushed, slamming it against the guard rail. He moved forwards with it, pushing it until it lost its balance.

It grabbed him as it fell.

He slammed into the rail, his breath escaping his lips in a pained grunt. He dropped his weight low, and shifted, trying to pull his arm up, but the zombie was just too fucking heavy. He let out a strangled scream. It felt like his ribs were cracking under the infected's weight. It dangled, holding onto his wrist like a vice.

"Mother fucker!"

He hissed, his vision going black for a few seconds, he had trouble keeping himself upright- he was so light headed. Panting, he brought his foot up, and slid it through the spacing of the bars.

And then he stomped on the fucking things head. Again and again and again, until it let go with a howl, falling into the writhing mass of undead beneath him. He pushed himself away from the railing and pressed his back against the outside wall of the building, his hand coming up to probe at his ribs.

"Fuck…" He winced, his word coming out as a sharp hiss.

He took a few breaths, and pushed off the wall, moving towards the closest window. The zombie, in its attempt to beat him to death, had smashed through it. He didn't waste any time before he was climbing through it- moving extremely carefully.

He would be damned if he died from cutting himself on a window during the zombie apocalypse.

He found his footing, before looking around, trying to spot any sort of threat. Nothing jumped out at him.

Figuratively and literally.

He forced himself to take in the surroundings. He was in a hallway. Two doors on the left wall. One on the right. The closest door to him was the one on his left- and he could see that it was open. There was a table next to him with a vase of dying flowers in it, but there wasn't anything else of note on it. The hallway opened up into what appeared to be a living room, he knew that because he could see the light of a tv playing static. He frowned- there wasn't anything that he could use as a weapon in sight.

He approached the door to the left, the sounds from the horde outside spurning him onwards. He leaned forwards, peeking into the bathroom. Empty. He let out a small sigh, and entered, closing the door behind him. He took his backpack off, and set it on the countertop, before opening every single drawer that he could. He was rewarded with a bottle of pain medication, a package of Band-Aids, gauze, and a bottle of liquid disinfectant. His ribs were still screaming at him, so he pulled out a few pain pills and popped them into his mouth, shuddering a little at the taste.

He hated medicine.

He looked at the tap for the sink longingly- he had been running a bit low on water- to the point where he had been rationing what he did have. His throat itched a little, and he reached out and twisted the tap, disappointed but not overly surprised when nothing happened. Water had been one of the first things to stop working when things went to hell. Power was soon after- but some places still had power.

He stuffed his prizes into his bag, before stepping out of the bathroom.

The next closest door was the one on the right side of the hallway. It was in almost directly across from him. Three steps later, he was pressed against it, straining to hear anything from inside the room. Nothing. But that didn't mean there wasn't any danger. He reached out and turned the knob, pushing ever so slowly. He blinked, his eyes adjusting slowly to the blackness of the room.

That's when the smell hit him.

He reeled back, smoothing a gag. His eyes turned, and his eyes stung with tears. He took a few moments, breathing through his mouth, as he turned and opened the door further.

It was a bedroom. He didn't note the size, or the color of the walls, or anything else. No, what Jim saw was a man, sprawled out over the bed. Blood and viscera splattered against the wall behind the corpse. His eyes landed on the source of the gore.

There, in the corpses hand, was a pistol.

Jim's heart skipped a beat at the sigh. Half a second later, he was bounding across the room, attempting to ignore the stench of rotting flesh. Soon, he was at the foot of the bed, carefully reaching out to extract the weapon from the corpses fingers. He didn't want to fire the gun, after all.

It was harder than he thought, what with how stiff the corpses fingers were. But, he was able to pry the gun from its grip after a moment of trying, a large grin on his face.

About a minute later, he managed to fumble the magazine out of the bottom of the grip, he turned it over with his hands- seven bullets. Including the one in the chamber. He shoved the magazine back in the weapon and stuffed it into the back of his pants.

He very quickly fled the room, the smell hitting him full force. He closed the door behind him.

The last door was a linen closet- with a washer/dryer combo stuffed into it, with nothing that he could really use.

He turned, creeping further into the apartment, relaxing fully when he couldn't see any infected.

He looked around. The area was a living room and kitchen combination, with a dinner table that could fit maybe four people. The living room had a couch and a chair, which he eyes longingly. They looked far, far too comfortable. But the sounds from outside the building, caused him to keep moving around.

He busied himself by heading towards the kitchen cupboards, rummaging through them to try and find something to eat. He was rewarded with various canned foods, black beans, peas, two cans of beef soup. He even took a can of dried tomatoes- despite the fact that he fucking hated tomatoes.

He moved onto the fridge- gripping the handle warily. He tugged it open by an inch, preparing himself for a smell that never came. He let out a relieved sigh and opened it further. The lack of rotting food was a serious plus. He took his time to rummage through it.

He reached out, taking things to stuff into his bag- apples, oranges, a jar of peanut butter, juice boxes, and about a dozen or so bottles of water. He grabbed one of them, and all but ripped the cap open, greedily taking a few large gulps. He had to stop himself, lest he finish the bottle entirely. He replaced the cap, and put it, along with the rest of his stuff.

He turned, looking towards the living room- there wasn't anything of value that he could see. He drummed his fingers on his leg as he thought about his next move, the reassuring weight of the pistol in his pants making him purse his lips in thought.

Seven bullets.

That really wasn't a lot.

He would need to find another weapon, deciding that he would only use the pistol if he absolutely needed to.

He turned and started pulling out drawers, and other than a wickedly sharp chef knife, there wasn't anything of value that he could see. He took the knife. He bounced it in his hand alittle. Now, he had some options.

He could go through the door to the apartment, maybe search through a few more of them, or he could go back out onto the fire escape, and get onto the roof. This building was pressed right up against another one- he'd probably be able to get into it from there. He continued to drum his fingers on his thigh. Getting to the roof was a good idea, but he really didn't want to risk the fire escape, especially with the horde still active out there. He turned towards the door, and started walking towards it. He checked the closet beside it, just in case, but there wasn't anything noteworthy in there either.

He pressed himself against the door, and peered through the peephole, hoping to get some understanding of what the situation was like in the hall. Empty. Or at least, it looked empty from this angle.

He chewed on his dry bottom lip, and reached out to unlock the door, opening it very, very slowly. He peeked out the door. The apartment that he had just raided was at the end of the building, and from the look of things, the stairs would be at the other side. He cursed under his breath. He couldn't see any infected, but he _could_ see smashed open doors further down. He licked his lips, and started walking, knife in hand. He crouched, causing a wince as his ribs protested.

He moved, every one of his footsteps making him flinch. In the quiet of the hall, his steps were thunderous.

He really didn't want to risk bringing any more attention onto himself. He honestly didn't think that he would have been able to handle it. He gripped the knife tighter as he came across the first open door. Although, just saying that it was an open door, was a bit unfair. It was smashed open, ripped off of it's hinges. He peeked around the corner, and immediately pulled himself away, eyes wide.

There were more than a dozen infected in the room.

He tried to keep his breathing from wavering too much, tried to keep himself from shaking. He had a knife and seven bullets.

There was no way that he would be able to handle the amount of infected in the room.

It took him a few moments to calm down, forcing himself to breath in and out, quietly, making himself calm down. When he was good enough to move, he crouched low holding out the knife- to see through the reflection into the room. There were a bunch of them idling- laying down or sitting or leaning against the wall. One or two of them were moving around- and from the looks of things- they were the only ones that he would have to worry about seeing him.

He waited, trying to gauge any pattern or, well, anything, in their movements. There weren't any.

He watched, and watched, and waited. And finally, the two moving were looking away from the door.

He moved.

One. Two. Three.

Three steps, and he was fully on the other side of the ripped open door, pressing himself against the wall. He pressed himself tight against it, heart beating wildly in his chest. He strained his hearing- but he couldn't really hear anything above the sound of rushing blood in his ears.

When nothing came sprinting out of the room, he felt safe in moving forwards.

He looked down at the end of the hall, to where he could see the door that hopefully lead to the stairwell.

There were only three more open doors that he could see.

He could do this.


End file.
